


Duty and Denial

by felandaris



Series: Another Place And Time [17]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Affairs, Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Angst and Porn, Consensual Sex, Cullenlingus, Cunnilingus, Dom!Cullen, Drug Use, F/M, Internal Conflict, Light Dom/sub, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Oral Sex, Purple Hawke, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Templar Cullen, asshole!cullen, or so he thinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-03-02 17:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13323168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felandaris/pseuds/felandaris
Summary: He'd known from her look that she'd come tonight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He'd known from her look that she'd come tonight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted my last work here in September but I've actually written a bunch of stuff since then, including a King Alistair letter fic. If you're interested in reading more of my writing then check out [my Tumblr](https://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com) or [my Facebook! ](https://www.facebook.com/FelandarisFanFic)  
> Also, whatever do you call this ship...? Hawken? Cawke?!

The half-melted candle’s flicker cast fluid shadows against the stone wall, dancing in motions calm as the night itself. Void of its usual bustle of steel and voices, the barracks lay peaceful under the rising moon’s silver veil.

Only the figure at the desk sat alert, hunched over a stack of papers, shoulders tense and brow furrowed. A bloodshot gaze kept flicking between the hand-written document and the heavy door. Pale hands flipped the pages with the urgency of a man who’d been waiting too long.

Catching his own foot tapping against dusty floorboards, Cullen reached for the snifter before him, raising it to his lips only to frown when he found it empty. When the glass hit the table-top with more force than he’d intended, he reclined in his chair, releasing a shuddering exhale. Heavy lids gratefully fell shut. Shaky fingers massaged weary temples.

Much as he’d willed his body to relax, Cullen’s thoughts were finding no rest. He’d concluded his investigation, dealt with Samson and should have filed away today’s events just like the countless other incidents he’d handled.

His mind, however, in its petty persistence, wouldn’t let go of today’s sights and impressions- wayward Templars, rogue mages; unwanted yet inevitable mercenary helpers.

The last image sent tension charging into Cullen’s frame, had his eyes shooting open, and he challenged the door with another glare. It remained, motionless, no sounds coming from the hallway. Cullen shook his head, fearing his mind fouled by primitive instincts.

More staring brought no change except his foot resuming its restless tapping. Resignation set in over his tired limbs, and he considered retiring to bed.

When the knock did come it caught him so unprepared, he sat frozen to his chair, squinting as he doubted his senses. It took a second knock, a fraction louder, for Cullen to shoot up, hasty steps fuelled by panic of his visitor leaving.

The handle’s cool metal brought both relief and fresh nerves, and he pulled with so much resolve the door nearly hit him square in the face.

A whisper of cool crept over the threshold along with a shadow. Cullen had to peek out to see what he’d been waiting for.

She stood there, small and slim appearance, though sharply observant as ever. The hint of a smile, the single raised eyebrow spoke of amusement and of her ability to read a person, even an entire situation, with a single glance.

Holding the door open and beckoning her in, Cullen looked downwards, hiding a grin of his own. _He’d been right, after all- knowing from her look just before she left that she would come tonight._

She entered, walking with less hesitance than last time. The heavy staff slid off her back, the engraved initials _MH_ shimmering as she leaned it against the wall. The mere notion of her infiltrating the barracks while carrying this monstrosity filled Cullen with equal parts astonishment and ire.

The woollen cloak cascaded down her shoulders, and she draped it over her staff. Standing a few feet away in her nondescript robes, shoulders relaxed, she’d have looked harmless. But keen perception lingered in her eyes as she surveyed the scene ( _and him, no doubt_.)

And sure enough, a nod at his desk brought on that dreaded smirk, smug and challenging as if designed solely to torment him.

“Busy evening?”

Cullen allowed his eyes to follow hers, taking in the dry quill and scattered papers, though no acknowledging her question, or her, otherwise. The woman enjoyed getting a rise out of him far too much, and he wasn’t going to cave if he could help it. She let a moment pass in silence then shrugged. “I can come back another time if it suits better.” A step towards him, and her voice rose a mocking half-note. “Wouldn’t want to distract a Templar from his divine du-“

The dull thud of Hawke’s head hitting the wall cut her off- along with Cullen’s weight, and his lips all but smothering her. Whatever nonsense she’d been going to spout drowned out into a surprised gasp, then a sigh as her mouth opened to his probing.

Their kiss lacked the tenderness he could not grant her kind, rough tongues colliding rather than playing. Likewise, hands began claiming instead of exploring. Thick fingers described a rough trail down slim flanks; Cullen’s shirt went flying before blunt nails scraped across his back; buttocks were granted testing squeezes, not gentle pats.

When they broke apart, Cullen found the warmth filling his own face reflected in the pink tinting her cheeks. His index finger trailed down her collarbones, and curiosity nearly gave way to affection when he caught the tiniest swell forming under her robes. He cupped her breast, about to extend his thumb to tease the peak and stiffen it further.

Then she spoke, driving anger’s sour bile back to his chest and a bolt of furious arousal down his tightening breeches.

“Drinking again, Knight-Captain?” The cocked brow returned, and she was smacking swollen lips as if weighing the brandy’s aftertaste on her tongue.

“ _Quiet_!” The short syllable emerged as a hiss, a threat from between clenched teeth, as Cullen’s knee wedged itself between the mage’s thighs. Pinning her jaw between his thumb and forefinger, he held her in place.

Hawke’s eyes, satisfyingly, widened at the outburst-only to narrow as blue darkened into grey and her flush deepened. Putting herself back in control as was her way, she began rocking against his leg, a grin spreading over her face. Her chin lifted from his grasp, and she continued her grinding.

Cullen was about to snarl at her, but it was his turn to gawk when she leaned in to claim his mouth. Her kiss was rough and unrelenting, not giving an inch in this peculiar power struggle of theirs, which had somehow spilled from the Gallows right into his chambers.

Lips separated with a sloppy smack. Cullen huffed, getting to work on her clothes and not engaging in games. Three clasps came undone, four, five, and he parted the purple weave like a curtain to reveal his prize. She’d gone without a band, _of course_. Cullen felt her gaze on him as his pupils dilated, watching two round nipples pucker and darken, calling for his touch, his tongue.

He obliged, yielding like he had so often to her rogue band’s ludicrous demands. His hands remembered her bosom’s shape, the left immediately moulding around a tight little handful, pert peak straining against his palm. The right cupped her other breast, holding it up to inspect and appraise. Cullen’s growing familiarity with her body undermined his authority, closed the necessary distance in their relationship, just like her daytime taunts and snides.

It was up to him to reclaim power, put the mage in her place and show her this was happening for his benefit alone. So it was with the detached intrigue of a patron at the Rose rather than a lover’s fondness that his tongue found her areola; swirled around its pebbly width, tasting salt and lavender; tested and teased her nipple longer, stiffer with a few hard jabs.

And it was Cullen’s own battle- hardened will that resisted shuddering when she grasped the nape of his neck; ignored the goose bumps her moan roused; tried with agonising futility to keep his length from twitching when she shoved her chest in his face, demanding more.

Her touch, her breaths, her motions all bore a closeness defying the barriers that should never fall between mage and Templar. And so when Hawke’s fingers clutched his hair, he left her breast, fleeing the intimacy she was luring him into. An irate nipple plopped from his mouth while his hands wasted no time. The scattering of scars and moles decorating her skin, her stomach’s soft swell and the sharp jut of her hipbones all went ignored in pursuit of his destination.

Her smalls had shrunk in size since their previous meeting, he noted despite himself; running a finger over the black lace playfully adorning the waistband. Hawke appeared unfazed at his hurried progress, amused even. Cullen couldn’t fathom ( _and didn’t care to_ ) exactly what had her so entertained.

… until the final layer pooled over her slippers and he was left staring at her bare crotch, dumbfounded like Kirkwall’s biggest fool. Incredulous eyes flicked between her growing smile and what she’d presented him with, and he shook his head, helpless. Her delta of dark fluff had reduced more dramatically than her underpants- though not disappeared entirely.

No, she had chosen to mock him, the Order and everything he stood for by trimming her pubic hair to an outline of the Templar insignia.

And still she was grinning, giddy in her little triumph, sending a fresh wave of rage into Cullen’s chest.

 _“Minx!”_ The impact of Cullen’s half-dressed body on her naked frame sent Hawke reeling, stumbling backwards as he gripped her by the wrist, pushing her towards his desk. The force of her limbs hitting polished wood, or perhaps the snarl distorting Cullen’s face brought the shock back to her eyes for a meekly rewarding second. But the sight of her grimacing with discomfort broke Cullen’s resolve. In an instant’s lenience, almost tripping over his feet, he hurried to gab a pillow and tuck it under her.

Once the necessity was done with he made sure to ignore her grateful sigh. Standing before her, he took in her sprawled-out form- the one arm folded behind her head, perking up her bosom; her legs parted, revealing a glistening sheen; and especially her nervous gaze, her needy anticipation.

Power and lust pulsed pleasantly in his loins. The city’s most notorious rogue mage, mysteriously tolerated by the Knight-Commander, lay naked om his bureau. The woman who’d made it her mission to interfere and disrupt Templar business, to ridicule and belittle Cullen, was all laid out at his mercy.

Cullen stepped closer, relishing her gasp as he leaned in. She was waiting for him to speak, to act, and he was denying her. Letting a moment, and another, pass, hovering, he watched his shadow flicker over her in the dim light.

When he’d waited enough he looked at her, cupping a breast only to squeeze the soft flesh in his hand. Her shudder spurred him on, and he tweaked nipple between his fingers, tugging until she winced. A quick grip and twist on its twin, and her back arched, head rolling sideways, but he didn’t miss her shameful whisper.

“ _Please_.”

Cullen smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it- part 1 of 2 for a pairing I didn't think I'd write anytime soon. Let me know what you think, if you like!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Cullen got his scar, 100% canon-free!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be smut, PTSD references and trauma imagery as well as drug use.  
> Bonus points if you spot the reference to a classic Cullen x Hawke longfic (which, sadly, seems to have disappeared off the interwebz)

As he leaned in further, something caught his eye and he stopped. He couldn’t fathom why it had taken him this long to notice she was without war paint. Again he paused, dumbfounded; wondering whether this was the first of their now seven _encounters_ he’d seen her without. Or had it simply escaped his attention?

She had freckles, dotted all around her nose and cheeks. The whimsical detail drew him in, coercing him into a second’s unbidden affection.

The feel of her cheek under his thumb _-or was it her little hum?-_ roused him from his foolish digression. Letting go, he growled, pulling her towards the desk’s edge before he got on his knees. He’d have inspected her, teased with hands, lips and breath, but agitation and arousal allowed no respite.

Hawke tasted of salt and lavender. A grin curved his mouth at how slick she was, _for him,_ and he couldn’t suppress a moan to echo hers as his tongue delved into her.

She arched, buttocks tightening in his hands along with the fingers in his hair. Cullen’s scalp stung, driving a hot sting of tears into his eyes, and anger into his chest, or so it should have. But only desire surged through him, heating his blood, stiffening his limbs and other things further. All he could do was lap at her, open-mouthed, tongue caressing in thorough yet hurried strokes; pausing every so often to tease the little knot of nerves protruding stiffly at the top; feasting on her apostate quim, equally starved of sustenance and sense.

And sense, it seemed, had at last completely evaded her too, for Hawke let go of his hair. Her buttocks lifted as she arched with a howl that cared neither for propriety nor discretion, feet kicking out as she tumbled down climax’s abyss—

… and taking Cullen right with her.

The impact of a flailing shin against his chest knocked him off-balance- and not just him. The forgotten chair found itself equally caught in the way of her hapless thrashing, for it went down with, and _on top of_ him.

“ _Ow_!” His cry came distorted, raised in pitch by pain’s sharp sting above his lip. A moment passed as he sat heaving clueless. Then she was beside him, pushing away the chair. A hefty curse left her lips as she placed a finger on where the backrest had hit his face.

Cullen was still blinking for orientation. But the digit lingered, now joined by another, and a warm prickle emanated from her touch. Confusion’s haze cleared into realisation, then panic, and Cullen jerked away from her magic. “ _No_!”

“Yes,” she insisted, pulling him back into her, “it’s necessary.”

“You don’t understand- I—” Cullen all but whimpered, staring at the palm he was opening and closing as his body shrank into itself, into fragments of sounds, images and sensations he’d fought to banish every day. Disfigured abominations, once his friends, closing in; claws, pale and bony, taunting, reaching but never touching; screeches, barely human, of those dying, of demons feasting, perhaps even his own; shackles invisible but unbreakable, powerless confinement; and the stench- the smell of death, decay and hopelessness lingering, eating into his skin, his being.

And then Cullen flinched for but a second when she tilted his chin up with her fingertip, like he dimly recalled doing to her. Only in her gaze lingered no predatory greed, no glee, just honest solemnity and—

_…tenderness?_

“It’ll be all right. I won’t hurt you.” Something about the way her eyes had softened to a gentle azure had him believe her, poking at that lonely hollow deep in his chest. He nodded, slowly, with the reluctance of a man aching to trust again.

“There’ll be a small scar,” she added, fingers returning, “but that should be preferable over the entire barracks wondering how the Knight-Captain got that cut overnight.”

Cullen hummed his acceptance, his submission, and let her heal him. They sat in a silence mutual and awed, in the extinguished candle’s sooty aroma, her hand’s amber glow the only light. Her touch, her _caress_ , lay warm on his face, sending bubbles of energy pulsing under his skin. Unable to tell how much time had elapsed, he recognised she was finishing only by the tingle softening and her light dimming. Hawke didn’t move, remaining bare before him, two fingers on him still. Through magic’s healing haze Cullen wondered whether he’d just sensed her inhaling his smell. They remained, bodies not quite daring to touch but breath and heartbeats aligning.

Cullen reached for his cheek, finding a thin rough line where there’d been blood. Not just his wound, though, his entire body felt refreshed, rejuvenate. Fresh energy pulsed through his veins- and his crotch, focussing his attention back on his prize.

Even in the dark he recognised her naked form as their gazes met; the widening of her eyes as he rose to start walking; her breasts’ tempting little jiggle when she backed up into his desk.

Once more he hovered over her, a rather satisfying reflection of their hierarchy. His rekindled erection strained at the sight of her- petite, graceful and ready to be made his.

And his prick throbbed, hard, at her yelp when he flipped her over, shoving the pillow under her stomach; attention already set on the pair of round buttocks greeting him. Much as he tried to summon the same restraint that kept him from arresting her at daytime, he couldn’t resist meeting her rear with a smack of his flat hand. Hawke cried out, and he struck her again. She responded with a moan this time, and a throatier one on the third strike, prompting Cullen to shed the confinement his bottoms had become.

A stroke of cool grazed his thighs, his length, and Cullen hissed under its tickle before taking himself in hand.

“Is this what you want?” He supressed a hiss when his shaft brushed over her cleft.

“Yes”, she drawled, arching her back to meet his touch, “yes, Knight-Captain.”

The final syllable drowned out into a howl as Cullen pushed in, gasping at the ease with which her body absorbed him. He was fully inside her in a warm, sloppy instant so immediate, so sweet he had to pause, frizzy curls flush against her rear as he blinked away the sudden dizziness.

He must have fallen into a drowse, for the next thing he felt was the floral spice of her hair his face had sunk into, the gentle quake of her shoulders as she breathed-

… and a pulse of movement around him. _Where she was squeezing_.

“Minx,” he pressed out, not for the first time tonight. Indeed, she seemed to take it more as endearment, judging from her melodic giggle ( _one he’d not heard before but couldn’t say he disliked_ ).

Laughter lengthened into curse as he pushed himself up, hips rocking without a thought. Instinct took over his body, numbing his mind as he held and thrust and succumbed.

Once again their bodies danced, grappling for dominance; breathless moans echoing one another; marking with little bites and scratches.

Cullen only noticed he’d closed his eyes when they opened as a shock of pleasure rose from his gut. Immediately her keen stare met his over her shoulder, and he had no time to think what she’d done to him now. For climax lingered at the root of his shaft, tingling with promise. Cullen winced as he withdrew, her hum vaguely registering at his mind’s frenzied edge.

One, two tight pumps, a few thrusts into his own fist, and his head rolled back on a strangled groan. Then, _suddenly_ , she was on her back, facing him, biting her lip as she squeezed her breasts together. And all Cullen could do was let go, surrender, spilling streaks of sin and depravity on freckled skin.

The room turned, darkening except for the body laid out before him. Fingers numbed and toes curled as he gripped the desk, struggling to remain upright. When his vision returned he gasped upon finding her standing right before him, framed by his arms.

Hair tousled and lips swollen, she peeked out from under heavy lids. He couldn’t discern whether she was smiling, or trying not to. But he cursed his own soul when the only, appalling response he found in himself was a nod.

Hawke’s head dropped on a sigh, and Cullen hurried to get a cloth. The second he laid the rag on her chest her chin rose halfway, eyes now wide and expectant as he mechanically started cleaning her. As ever, her gaze pierced his conscious, and eventually he had to turn away.

They dressed with no need for words, or perhaps at a loss for them. Each item of clothing he put on bore a warning, a call to say or do something. But he just stood, paralysed, though unsure what he’d do if he weren’t.

Behind him her staff dragged across the floor as she picked it up, and he still didn’t move. Not when a slim hand came to lie on his shoulder. Not when her nose nestled into the crook of his neck, almost but not quite followed by her lips. And not when her warmth left him and the door clicked a moment later.

And all alone Cullen stood, embraced only by the draft’s cool veil, fist tightened as he stared ahead.

Time evaded his grasp once more while he remained in the room’s centre, lingering sensations of intimacy fading into lonely memories. As if in surprise, the floor creaked its protest when Cullen’s frame exploded into movement. His bureau’s drawer nearly came unhinged, its contents threatening to spill out as he yanked at it. The ornate wooden box slammed onto the desk, its latch clicking as hectic fingers fumbled.

Once the lid cracked open he allowed himself the hint of an exhale. Disregarding the syringe and leather strap, he took the flask, his brow twitching as the cork dropped to the ground. Stained glass sat welcoming against dry lips as Cullen threw his head back, drowning the draft’s contents in one parched gulp.

The blue poison’s earthy flavour soothed his throat, pleasantly numbing as it trickled into his stomach and rose into his temples. A grateful sigh escaped him, and he leaned against his chair to welcome the effects.

When he straightened up he looked straight at the pillow still sitting on the desk. Ignoring the fading floral scent, he staggered into his bed, allowing the Lyrium to dull all dreams and desires.

 


End file.
